Don't Forget
by Scarlet Nightmare
Summary: Warriors always have their stories. Some, are worth never losing, no matter how painful they may be to keep.


**Heya everyone :)**

**Time for some more one-shot action!**

**Just think of it as an early Valintine's gift from me to you guys ;)**

**But before we do, let me point out some things to clear it up a bit:**

**1.) This does take place during the war between the Bots/Cons, but it's in the earlier stages, when it was more quiet.**

**2.) There is mention of alcohol-like substances (High-grade) and some energon flyin' about :3**

**3.) The character in this are on the 'wrong' sides for the moment because they have yet to 'change' in the war. So HA, take that :)**

**Anywho,**

**Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, favorites, etc., I love you all :D**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

Don't Forget

Logic was an odd thing.

Whether it be for one being or another, it always seemed to differ for each substantial figure in this universe. The same ideas, the same thoughts, and even the same lifestyle, could all be hindered with logic. When logic interrupted the flow of one's direction, it often left a bad taste in its wake. A being could be determined for the archives to better their wisdom, and yet travel to the holographic entertainment centers to see the latest picture developed instead. Or they could wander from going to a energon depository to refuel their systems to instead head for the oil pools for a swim. It didn't make sense.

Under the boundless expanse of brilliant stars, logic was turning upside down. This place was known for such an occurrence. As was it for its soaring edifices beaming arcs of colored light skyward into the endless, scattered cacophony of sparkling white stars on glassy black skies. Screaming signs blared enticing offers of entertainment for those stalking through the lunar cycle joors. The streets bustled with nocturnal life, waves upon waves of metallic beings milling about around stores thrumming in excitement and clubs vibrating the very ground with its music.

Quaking buildings shimmered with glamorous lights under the warm glow of the tall lamps lining the streets. Logic detail they have flashing words strung from their windows or dancing femmes, laced with jewels and painted vibrantly enough to nearly blind a mech, preform behind glass to lure in customers. They were businesses after all, from the smallest energon depository shop, to the most exclusive clubs, there was logic in the madness. Outside these businesses, lottas prowled along the shadows, from elder and more experienced to those that appeared right out of their youngling frame. They were ragged and rough, lounging against the walls of structures while they scoped out their next job with lazy sweeps. One could easily pick them from the rest of the crowd, as they lingered for too long, and often bore too-bright paint and optics that were cloudy with defeat. That was the logic of this city-state.

A golden mech, clashing greatly against the backdrop of dark, pay them no heed as he entered one of the clubs adorning the lengthy strip of road. These were more common here in this city of Kaon than anywhere else on Cybertron. It would only be logical, as Koan was known for its tenancy to stray for the more frowned upon virtues of life. There was pollution here, killings, rape, gambling, torture, smelting pits, and anything else under their onyx sky that could possibly be scornful or contemptuous. But it was home nonetheless. Despite its more immoral values, Kaon was where this mech and his brother were sparked and where he expected himself to deadspark.

He tread through the doors with a certain dangerous, icy calmness to him that many of those bred within Kaon's boundaries bared in pride. And so he faded into the crowd the moment he stepped onto the maroon floor of the place. Not a single pair of optics bothered to flick his way, though his were busy scanning every visible inch of the space surrounding him. It was a nurtured habit for him to be suspicious. You wouldn't last the breem if you didn't keep an optic over your shoulderbolt constantly. Being alert meant staying alive. Now _that_ was logic.

Usually he was not one to enter such domains as this. There was too much chance for incident. There were too many frames crammed into one space and too much noise to possibly process straight. But at the moment that was exactly what he was looking for.

The loudness of the color on the walls, mixed with the strobe lighting, particularly jarring music selection, and drunken mechs fumbling for the femmes walking along the stage strips or wrapped around the poles on the pedestals distracted him enough to the point of insanity. Perfect.

Those femmes waltzing along the stages passed between lines of mechs whooping and flustered with wicked smiles on their faceplates. Not a single servo came out to touch them, for up there, they were invincible. They couldn't be touched, and as so, they were an unreachable goal for each of those fevered mechs to merely imagine bedding with this lunar cycle.

The deeply golden figure still at the door made his way to avoid those walks, finding their aura too stifling for his tastes. His brother would have loved to sit among those clamoring bafoons, vying for a chance that a gem-encrusted and all-too-perfect femme would notice him out of all the others. And it had happened once or twice, but the odds for him on the basis that he came here for it to occur each time were slim at best. He and his brother were fairly handsome on their part, but that helped them none in the long run.

And so the newcomer ignored the logic of beautiful femmes and their drooling mechs for the seclusion of the interestingly empty bar towards the back of the lively area. A steady rhythm of deep, basso drums picked up low enough to vibrate the plates of his armor while he crossed the distance from his standing to where the bar was built into the rear wall. As he slipped atop one of the stools, he felt the shaking worsen. It climbed from peds through his legs, traveling up the length of his spinal support with reckless abandon. This was definitely not his idea of fun. But if his brother could do it, why couldn't he?

He brought his arms up to fold over the long, sleek surface of the counter, his servos balling into fists. His smoldering gaze wandered over the many tonics and mixed high-grade drinks lining the shelves. Their labels gleamed in the muffled lighting above, slightly obscured by the fog that traveled from where the femmes danced. More neon bars peeked out from between the seams of the shelves, drawing the sights to observe the many usually forbidden high-grade selections available. He briefly wondered how many of them he would have to get down to forget. That was the only reason he was here. To forget.

Fighting with his brother was not one of his more favored moments as a twin. They would say one single sentence that crossed the line, setting off their sibling with ferocious vigor. Usually it was some other lug that fragged them off, but when it was each other, things didn't go over well. Since they were indeed twins, they were basically two of the same spark. They felt one another's wrath - the anger and the hurt that looped around between their interlocked bond and increased tenfold as it jumped to and fro. It would pick up pace when they felt their increasing aggravation, which would only worsen their arguing to usually violent extents. The anger would still boil and cycle around from brother to brother, picking up irritation, increasing it, then sending it their sibling's way. This vicious circle would continue until finally one of them hit the other and they fought it out, or one of them simply walked away. He'd done the latter.

"Anything look interesting?"

The mech jerked his helm from studying the various selections set out to see the holder of the voice bringing him from his musings. It was a femme, definitely not one of the dancers, of average height, minor armoring, and a turquoise coloring. She had sharp features that appeared feisty enough to rival Sideswipe's own, and optics blazing a brazen white of the mezzo class. He himself was of the mezzo class, so he knew he could instantly relate to this being. She was wiping clean an energon cube, the cloth in her digits swiping away the most minor of blemishes while her steady gaze locked on his.

The mech shook his helm. "Just regular high-grade," he decided as he averted his attention back on the labels. The femme placed the cube underneath the counter before straightening and turning to the shelves herself, arms crossed.

"Straight?" she asked skeptically.

He nodded.

With a short whistle, the femme was off to get the right materials. She returned a click later, energon glowing an eerie azure as she slid it across the tabletop. The mech's servo flashed out and caught the cube, his digits planted around the rim. He drug it towards him, watching the contents inside the clear barriers wave around. A drop flew from the top, plopping on the counter. A cloth appeared from nowhere to wipe it away from sight before he could say anything of it. The femme then flung it over her shoulderbolt and rested her hipbolt against the counter, arms wound over her curvy chassis.

"It's not often a mech such as yourself goes for the pure stock," she commented offhandedly while she studied him. He tilted his helm back and lifted the cube, downing half the energon inside with one single go. Instant burning sizzled his throat, making him wince against the tingle and grit his oral sheets. From the corner of his vision he saw the femme lift an optic ridge.

"Such as myself?" he repeated after recovering from the high-grade. Carefully he sucked on his glossa, willing the remnants of his drink to go down. He set hard optics on her, their color buzzing from the thrill the energon sent through his systems. It wasn't often he drank, but when he did, he did so heavily. The numb pleasure it gave his systems always seemed to entice him back to these places in his times of anger or grief. However, his brother was usually sitting next to him. The mech chugged another round of acidic-like liquid.

The femme reached for another empty cube under the counter, twisting without a word to the depositor to fill it. When she returned, her lip plates were drawn up in a smirk. "Gladiators usually go for the mixed high-grade," she stated, chuckling lightly in amusement when he guzzled his second cube.

Setting down the high-grade, he suppressed a shudder. He could feel the fire in his tanks, as well as the glorious thrum in his lines. Though not a danger was present, he could feel his spark pounding. Perhaps it was the hyper atmosphere surrounding him making him react in this way. This room's intensity, coupled with the spike of alertness and relaxation he gained from the high-grade, was enough to make him beside himself with euphoria. At least he would say he was getting to that point at the pace he was setting. For now, he was currently still simmering with a heat beyond that of the high-grade.

With crimson optics shuttering, the mech swung his cube in a circle, sloshing the contents inside into a miniature vortex. "I am no regular gladiator," he commented blandly. His optic slips parted to allow him to see the femme again. She was busying herself by swiping clean the cabinets beneath the shelves. She started low, however, before long, she was stretched high to reach the levels above her. Her slim form elongated to make it to the stages past her reach. The curve of her spinal support swooped into the shape of her legs, their length straining to push her taller. With a huff she dropped back to her peds. The mech quickly snapped his optics away from her when she turned.

"Fragging shelves are always so high! How am I ever supposed to reach the top?" she grumbled half to herself, throwing the rag on the counter and bending over to disappear below. The golden gladiator sitting on the stool kept his optics trained on the cubes and not on her aft, which was positioned high into the air at the moment. She appeared with a stool in her grasp, her vents rattling with irritation. Those optics of hers rolled before she pivoted on her heelped and set it on the floor, climbing up. "Well regular or not, try keeping those optics of yours off my aft for me, will you?" she teased while she stepped onto the platform.

Her company snorted, twisting his helm on his neck to stare off into the crowd of dark mechs and femmes, grinding on one another while they danced.

"Don't flatter yourself," he retorted. But as he'd found that he had seen every set of faceplates on the dance floor and felt the build of the song, he couldn't help his curiosity. This femme sure was confident of herself. There had to be a reason.

Swiftly he shook his helm, mentally slapping himself. What was he doing? This energon was getting to his processor, he was sure. Again he drew the rim of the cube to his lip plates, draining the container. In doing so, he had brought his gaze back to the labels, which of course sat right next to the bartender femme wiping away at the shelves. She was completely unaware of his presence at the moment, for she was totally engrossed in her work. Absently, the golden warrior's optics trailed the line of her frame.

Her arms were thin, her shoulderbolts slanted. Her chassis rounded quite nicely to her waist, with hipbolts that were neatly curved. Her aft was tiny and cute if he did say so himself, with armoring attached to her at the barest quantity. Legs, long enough to make his tanks clench, bowed while she crossed the gap made from her stool to the shelves. Silver thighs came to tall peds, which layered up her shin strut, but exposed her calf. A wedge held her weight, with toelinks that splayed under the pressure. Details of white and yellow scored over her frame like ribbon, perking the more aesthetic side of his processor in interest.

At some point during his look he realized he'd been staring. As so, he snapped his prying optics away and drowned himself in all that was the distraction of the club around him. There was so much he could look at or concern himself with. So why was he giving that attention to this femme?

It was clear to him that he was forgetting about his argument with his brother. That was a positive. With an accomplished prick in his mood, he lifted the emptied cube and stacked it on the other. It tilted awkwardly, a lasting drop of high-grade beading from the corner. Strikes of colored light bounced from the surface of the cube, dancing about on something other than peds. A dull thump sounded to his immediate right and the mech's faceplates snapped in that direction.

At his arm was another energon cube, full to the brim, with a green, powdery substance sprinkled on top. The material was almost glowing as it floated around. Cautiously he took it in his servo and brought it before him. Two avidly suspicious optics darted up to see her faceplates. They seemed genuine enough, however he couldn't ever be too sure. Whatever she could have put in here could be poisoned.

"It's shaved Iaconian syn-then," she informed him evenly, tossing him a thin, metallic stirring stick. "Trust me, it's nice."

"How did you get syn-then of that quality?" he inquired as he stirred in the shavings with his digit. He ignored the stick in favor that it may too have been dipped in poison. Really, there was no reason for him to doubt this femme, for if she deadsparked him, there was nothing she could gain from it. However, he couldn't be too sure. This could be an ex-lover of his brother's for all he knew, wanting to get revenge on them both by killing off a twin, thus exterminating both. A femme's logic was always confusing.

"We have connections up north that import us special ingredients that usual places don't have access to," she said, leaning on the counter again. "Now are you gonna drink it and stop being such a suspicious pile of rust, or what?"

Synthetic energon was quite the catch if a Cybertronian could get their servos on it. In small doses such as this, it would give the consumer a good kick out of the joor. In larger amounts, it could be dangerous. The energy given off by it would not only send the mech or femme through a delusional and unstable swing of emotions, but give them a nasty crash and recovery afterward.

Still, what could he lose? This femme so far seemed sane enough. Kaonian femmes usually never did anything without reason or payment.

"You are at the end of your shift, aren't you?" he assumed as he took the first experimental sip of his cube. It was delicious, of course.

The femme groaned and raised her arms above her, popping the pivotjoints with a crack loud enough to be heard over the music. Obviously this was a relief to her, and so she doubled over the counter, laying her helm in her arms with her optics drooping heavy in oncoming fatigue. A dreamy grin brought up the sides of her lip plates and the mech set down his cube curiously.

"You could say that," she admitted with a long vent. "You should be my last customer before I head out."

"Don't wait on me, I plan on staying for some time."

With that, he drank. Deeply he indulged in the delicious mix of straight high-grade and syn-then. There truly was nothing like Kaonian high-grade. It was of the best quality on Cybertron, and so it was highly sought and valued amongst those not from the city-state.

The femme shifted her helm to set her chin on her bracer, her optics stalling on his form while he worked at the cube. "Then I think I will too. I don't mind," she said after a moment. "I enjoy the company. It's not often I get a mech to talk to without him flirting with me or grabbing my aft."

"In a place such as this, you shouldn't expect anything else," was his cold, yet bluntly truthful answer. It was true, the mechs in Kaon respected a femme about as far as one could throw them. If she were a gladiator, such as he was, then they were given better respect. But it looked as though the best place they could find some dignity in their race was in a club such as this. Anywhere else on Cybertron, they were near gods walking among their mech counterparts. In Kaon, things were run a bit differently.

It wasn't a fact he was particularly proud of. It was something he simply dealt with. In his earlier orns as a sparkling beside his brother, their mech creator treated their nannia like slag. She had been used for interface, providing him a steady sustenance supply, and taking care of their young. That was it. There was no love between them. It hadn't occurred to him until much later on that she had been put through Pit and back dealing with that. She'd known he sneak out to court with other femmes. She'd known her place was barely above that of rust to him. But she had still dealt with him and his abusive ways. She still put on a brave front to take care of her creations. And she still deadsparked on that orn their fragger of a dolanno was shot through the spark.

It was why he didn't trust other mechs but his brother. They were closed off from the worlds. Love was beyond them. They hadn't ever felt true love from any but their nannia, and she had been killed from it. They survived in their own ways from every passing orn, with himself diving into solitary terms in their quarters painting away, or mutilating other mechs in the gladiatorial pits. His sibling usually hid his pain by visiting clubs like this or also fighting opponents in the arena beside him.

"What is your designation?" the femme suddenly questioned, bringing the gladiator back to reality. He banished his thoughts and focused on the femme, finding her preferable over the excess of his not-so-pleasant memory files.

Should he tell her? Would it be wise to let his name be rooted in her processor for her to possibly use in tracking him down again? This far in their conversation and she had yet to set a red flag off in his processor. It seemed simple enough to say it, but what would be his consequences.

No. No, he couldn't think about it like that. This was a lunar cycle for not thinking, wasn't it? If only to forget.

"Sunstreaker," he told her. It was so easy to say that. What was it about this femme that made him feel so trusting? Was it the energon?

Her helm rose from her bundle of arms and she scooted close to him, her bracer now inches from his. Her oral sheets shined in the dim lights, her optics humming with wild energy. An abrupt shock of lightning shot down Sunstreaker's spinal relay at that look.

"I like the sound of that," she murmured, close enough to be heard over the noises surrounding them. "_Sunstreaker_."

Sunstreaker withheld the rumble in his chassis and flattened his expression, showing no reaction to her statement. Her lip plates closed and she looked at him long and hard. Without warning she was slowly standing, her frame inclining towards his. Sunstreaker wanted to lean away from her when the space between them lessened. But for some reason beyond him, he couldn't.

The femme stopped with her faceplates hovering in front of his, so close that their noseplates almost touched. If one of them would have shifted, they could have kissed. Because of that situation, Sunstreaker's temperature rose a few notches. Everything else melted into the background. Sunstreaker fought to bring back the noise and the disorienting sound, if only to clear his processor, however, it wasn't working. All he knew at this instance was this femme standing right in front of him.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me my designation?" she wondered, tipping her helm to the side slightly. "Usually that's how this thing is supposed to go." Sunstreaker swallowed whatever lubricant remained on his glossa before twisting his helm to the side to drink what was left of the concoction the femme made him.

"What is it?" he asked her in a voice steadier than he felt. It appeared as though she were about to kiss him. From the way her optics traced every seeable edge of his faceplates, the way she bit her bottom lip plate, and to her vents sending warm brushes of air over his bracers, she very well could have. He was lost for words to say. The energon he'd drank made it incredibly difficult to process everything at once. She was a vent away from touching her lip plates to his. If she ducked in just a bit more...

And then she pulled back, her lip plates widening into a large grin. A laugh split her throat, her cranial unit tilting back. Sunstreaker's spark was hammering against is casing, trying desperately to escape. The rag over the femme's shoulderbolt came off as she began to clean the cubes that had merely an astrosecond before been sitting next to Sunstreaker. He glanced beside him, finding only two there now. That sneaky fragger.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she responded cheekily. Sunstreaker scowled.

"That was a cheap move," he grumbled, sweeping an arm behind the cubes and pushing them at the femme. She smirked and picked them up, expertly balancing them on one arm while she continued work on the first one.

"Then don't be such a sap, falling for an old trick like that."

"Don't test me, femme."

She again giggled, completely unaffected by his threats. He knew that he wouldn't actually hurt her, but how she could simply blow him off like that actually irritated him. He blew through his lip plates, resting on his arm while he aimed his sights on those having the time of the vorn while he sat talking to an attractive, crude femme with seemingly no sign of a filter on her. Disturbingly she reminded Sunstreaker of a femme version of his brother.

Out of the blue she nudged his arm. "Come on, I didn't upset you did I? I was only joking," she promised goodnaturedly. When he didn't speak, but turned his optics away again, she huffed and set the cubes back on the countertop a little too hard. "Alright then, how about I get you another cube for dealing with me, eh? Will that make you like me again?"

"I never said I liked you in the first place," he countered as he looked at her from the corner of his optic. The smallest hint of a playfulness edged in his tone. Yep, he definitely was under the influence.

The femme smiled, her optics flashing with an excitement he himself haven't felt since he was a sparkling. "At least I got you talking again. That means I win," the last part was called over her shoulderbolt while she chucked the dirtied energon cubes into a tub on the back wall. With graceful steps only a femme could make, she both glided over to the dispenser and put an emptied cube under the nozzle with one fluid move.

Sunstreaker frowned at the femme, utterly confused at himself about how he could have let himself be talked into defeat by a fragging bartender.

* * *

Alright, three cubes was ok.

Four was pushing it maybe a bit.

Five was coming into the drunken zone.

But six? Was he dull?

His cheekplates flushed a hue of faint blue, Sunstreaker gently dipped a digit around the bottom of the emptied cube to get the last bit on the tip. He then drew it out and licked the wondrous high-grade off. By now, the still unnamed femme had given him cube after cube of special energon concoctions made just for him. They weren't on the menu like regular mixes, and so it had been a game of experimentation for him to try each sample she came up with and set out before him. They were small shots of high-grade, mixed with a little something else each time, and he had yet to find one he disliked.

After his eighth energon shot, he was finding his vision fuzzy around the edges and his processor in a lovely state of relaxation. While he had been drinking one high-grade shot after another, he'd convinced her to do one as well. After some persuasion, he'd gotten her to take the high-grade. Primus, could that femme hold her shots.

Right now she was laughing hard enough to blow a vent, lubricant threatening to run over her bottom optic slips. She wiped at them, gasping for cooling air as her fans clicked on to keep her temperature from melting her armor. Sunstreaker found himself grinning as well for the first time since...he didn't remember the last time he smiled. It had always been a tiny grin or smirk, but never a full smile like this. It felt...nice. Really nice. The argument with his brother was a far-off memory.

"His faceplates when she slapped him right across his mug," she burst back into a fit, her chassis jumping against the arms folded across the countertop. "Priceless! He hasn't come back since."

"Spitfire is truly what her name suggests," Sunstreaker noted as the femme sighed and wiped at a tear gathering at the corner of her optic.

"Yeah, she sure is," calmer now, the femme met gazes with Sunstreaker and grinned kindly. It was such an unexpected gesture that Sunstreaker fell silent, his vents cutting off on him.

There was something about this femme that made Sunstreaker act so beside himself. Usually he was not one for talking, but here he was, wasting away the lunar cycle chatting with a complete stranger at a club. It wasn't every orn he met a being that could bring out the more social part of himself. It was both unnerving and refreshing at the same time. Was he losing touch? Was he going soft? No, he couldn't. As a gladiator, he hadn't the choice to change. Not for a friend, not for a femme, and not even for his brother.

Said femme straightened and stretched once more. A mild concern peeked at the back of his processor when he heard the pops and cracks emitted from her frame. But that was gone in an instant. Her soft optics, more open than they'd been all lunar cycle, settled on him again for a split nanoclick longer than they perhaps should have.

At random she seemed to have remembered something, and she jumped, startling Sunstreaker. "Right! Break. Ok," she said, her optics flitting about needlessly around her spotless work space. Not a speck of dried energon or dust was seen, as she had cleaned around while she conversed with Sunstreaker. A part of him enjoyed watching her work, finding it actually brought him contentment. And now she was bustling about, shattering their calm to find all her belongings.

Subspaces were filled and extra armor attached. It was a simple set, mostly used for the colder quartexes of Cybertron's vorns or decorative use. Sunstreaker briefly looked over the simple lines and sparse, yet effective, adornments. He decided it suited her quite well. A bit on the bare side, compared to her flirty, clever personality, but overall it worked.

"Sadly, I have to go sweetspark, my shift's over," the femme informed him, sending an apologetic expression his way. "It's been fun...more so than I've had in awhile." Without warning she swooped in, kissing him on the noseplate. Sunstreaker balked at the action, throwing his spinal support straight with his lip plates parted slightly and his optics wide. The femme giggled and clipped on her last piece of armor. "Thanks for the company. I mean it."

"What about the high grade? I didn't pay-"

"It's on the house. Take it as a thank you for listening."

Around the counter she went, coming up to him with a peculiar light to her gaze. Her servo passed over his, squeezing his digits once before she smiled and turned away. "Goodbye, Sunstreaker. I expect to see you again, you hear?" She didn't stay for her answer. He didn't think he could have given one anyway if she had. He was still getting over the kiss she had planted on his noseplate. Of course he felt foolish merely sitting there, dumbstruck and marginally saddened by her leaving, but with all that high-grade he'd had, he doubted he could do anything other.

As he watched her departing form, slipping through the crowd of Cybertronians for the rear exit, he felt his spark patter. For the first time, in who knew how long, he'd talked to a being other than his sibling. It was relieving to let himself relax like that. To talk to her for those joors made him feel far more relaxed than he'd been in the past vorn. Sure, post-gladiator battle oil soaks untangled the wires and eased the pivotjoints, but it simply wasn't the same. He'd forgotten how therapeutic it was to socialize with a Cybertronian who shared his interests instead of one that only annoyed the living slag out of him. Maybe he could come back some time. Maybe he _was_ going soft.

Ah, logic.

"Hey, Tempest!" a mechly voice shouted over the noise. The femme Sunstreaker had been talking with for the majority of the lunar cycle looked towards the call of the voice in alarm. Tempest? Was that her designation?

Following the direction of the call, Sunstreaker found a mech, larger than himself, with maybe a good five feet or so on him, was shoving his way through those gathered to get to Tempest, who was now sagging by the door. She didn't appear the least bit pleased.

The mech who now held Sunstreaker's full attention came at the femme without missing a beat. His large servo clamped around her upper arm and he roughly yanked her along as he threw open the door. They both disappeared outside when the barrier shut behind them. Sunstreaker's optic ridges came down and he stared after the two departed Cybertronians. He wasn't one to delve in another beings' business. Often, he avoided it at all costs. It wasn't a wise idea to get himself involved, and with his temper, it usually ended up with some energon in his servos and a blade.

But from the way Tempest looked at that mech, as if she were completely dreading his approach...

One quick sneak wouldn't harm anything. He was simply seeing what that mech was doing with her and why he had just dragged her out into the streets like that.

Sunstreaker made his way off the stool, coming to his peds quicker than he should have. He swayed for an astrosecond, his sight dropping to black. His servo shot out to catch himself on the bar, and he paused to catch his bearings. After doing so, he was walking for the front doors with his peds feeling like lead and his helm about to float off his neck. The doors parted back easily enough for him to get through, and so he stood outside on the curb, his faceplates sweeping from side to side in search of Tempest and the mech.

All that met his observing gaze was a couple, draped over one another as they stumbled out of another club next door, laughing obnoxiously loud into the lunar cycle, and a confounding amount of civilians passing him by on their late orn walks under the milky caress of the two moons overhelm. Then a sound picked up from the alleyway beside him and his helm snap to his right. It didn't register right in the beginning that it was a cry of pain until he'd narrowed his optics and let the voice sink in. Slagging high-grade!

He battled though enough to be able to make it over to the corner. A quiet breeze had picked up, rushing through the plates of his armor and cooling the energon lines beneath to clear up his processor some from the haze. He could make out the abandoned neglect of the club's condition and sense the crunch of rubble underped. A smell of smelting frames that no being could truly get used to struck his noseplate, and he curled it in disgust. The shadows here were thick enough to choke on.

The careful gladiator, known more for his brashness than his spying skill, rounded the end of the building and pressed his spinal support to the wall. His neck craned to its limit to give him enough visibility. It was only here that he wanted to physically kick his own aft. What was he doing, snooping on another Cybertronian's business? He considered going back - to minding his own way and getting back to his brother. The mech would be wondering where he'd been. In fact, he could feel his sibling now, pecking at their bond. And he had been for a few joors. There was going to be Pit to pay when he got back.

"I told you, I _don't have it!_" the sound of Tempest's voice knocked Sunstreaker from his internal concerns and brought him back on point. She sounded incredibly angered. The icy, keen edge to her words was a side of her that he had yet to of seen or heard. It surprised him for a sparkbeat before he recovered.

He found Tempest in the very back of the alleyway, facing the mech from before. He could very well have been twice her size. His shadow alone enveloped her lithe form in a crushing cloud of blackness. The way she stood and her overall body language spoke volumes of her uncomfortable position. The mech himself was riled up over something, his plates pluming out over his protoform in fury. His optic ridges were buried deep into his optics, their glow spiteful and feral.

"I gave ya ah groon. _One groon_," he spat venomously. Tempest flinched, taking a step back as the mech before her swelled.

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry," she said, raising her servos placatingly. "It's just things haven't been going well recently and I didn't get in enough this groon to pay you back-"

Her words were sharply cut off when the mech unexpectedly backhanded her.

Sunstreaker froze as the ring of the hit reverberated from the walls. The smart blow had knocked her off her peds, sending her to the ground in a bundle of limbs. The strength behind it had made his energon run ramped in rage. Memories of his abusive mech creator crossed over in the lasting echoes of the mech's strike against Tempest. She now lay on the grime-covered ground, in a puddle of grease, just as his nannia had once, her frame shaking as she rose to an elbowjoint.

But what hadn't been the same was the look in Tempest's optics. They were alight in determination - in stubborn ire. They leaked a furious defiance in them that hadn't been there in Sunstreaker's nannia. Their white color were two orbs of searing flame, not defeat or disappointment or self-pity. They were stubborn as the oceans of liquid mercury that once flooded the banks of the Sea of Rust.

She lifted a servo, holding her digits to the dent adorning her cheekplate. The mech that had previously hit her bent down and snatched her up by her arm, forcing her to her peds before he rose his free servo, clearly about to hit her again.

Sunstreaker bolted out, having seen well enough to know that he wasn't leaving this alleyway as soon as he'd figured. Stay out of another mech's business be blasted to Pit, he was helping that femme. And it was in the forefront of his processor that it couldn't possibly be the high-grade influencing his actions. This was all him.

He rammed into the mech, making him stumble back. Sunstreaker then slammed his palms into the stranger's chassis, making him lose his grip on Tempest and practically fling her away as he fought for balance. A surprised yell bubbled from his lip plates as his arms windmilled backwards, his frame desperately trying to stay upright.

Sunstreaker caught Tempest before she could collide with the ground again, his servos firmly grasping her upper arms while hers clutched onto his bracers for balance. She seemed as shocked as the other mech had been, with her optics opened wide and her vents whirring at frantic speeds.

"Sunstreaker," she vented. "How...?"

"Are you alright?" he demanded, getting a dumb nod from the femme as an answer.

Ignoring her question, he switched his optics back to the mech. The figure had regained most his composure, and was rising up to tower over both femme and mech. Sunstreaker had to tip his chin up to see the mech optic to optic. It was difficult to tell much about the being in the lunar cycle darkness, however, he did know the creature was large, and he wasn't at all friendly.

"What in Primus-fragging name do ya think yer doin'?" he snarled, glaring with two piercing ruby optics down on Sunstreaker. The golden mech's mandible tightened when he saw the figure had the optics of a gladiator, or more recently, a Decepticon. His whole demeanor changed in the flick of a switch. Swiftly, he shoved Tempest behind him, his engines revving in warning.

The mech heard Sunstreaker's threatening move and he took a bold step at him, making Sunstreaker's frame tense in preparation. "This ain't nunna of yer business, mech. Get outta my way," he growled.

Sunstreaker merely curled in a fist, raising it at his side with his expression malicious and steadfast. It was no surprise to him when the mech charged finally, his patience gone. Sunstreaker merely sidestepped him, allowing him to pass before the golden gladiator grabbed the plates of his spinal support and tossed a leg in front of his, effectively tripping the hulking brute. It was here that Sunstreaker jumped away, allowing the mech to land faceplates first into the same puddle he'd knocked Tempest in clicks before.

Disgusting, brown grease flew up into the mech's faceplates, getting into his optics and all over his dusky grey armor. He roared, rubbing at his optics furiously to rid himself of the substance. Sunstreaker took the opportunity and sent his leg out in a means to bunt the mech in the side of his helm. He must have been slower than he'd imagined, under the influence of that high-grade, for he missed his target clumsily. For his mistake, he ended up flying backwards through the air.

He struck the wall on his spinal support, knocking the air from his vents and making him arch in pain. He cried out, his wiring sending sharp messages of pain through every limb. The world became a muggy mess of colors, sound, and sensations in his processor. Information jumbled into a disorganized mess, prancing about out of his conscious reach while he struggled to keep his bearings. Slowly he slid to the ground, landing on his aft while he shook his cranial unit from side to side to clear it. Again and again he shuttered and unshuttered his optics to clear them, without any luck. His upper spinal support hurt like a fragger, his struts still vibrating from the jarring impact made to him. His spark pulsed hard enough in his chassis that he feared the civilians walking on the curb may hear it. The buffeting winds merely added to its song.

A darkly mass entered his field of vision and in an instant his neck was crushed up against the wall. His optics popped wider as his body was brought agonizingly slow from the ground across its surface. The friction between it and his body sent sparks sailing as fiery rain in the air, making flashes of light attack at the curtains of shadow. They died as quickly as they came to life, dropping to the unforgiving Cybertronian surface in a fizzle of scarlet, orange, and yellow. Sunstreaker's oral sheets clenched tight enough to crack a denta.

His servos grabbed uselessly around the width of his attacker's bracer, his digits digging into the armor there. He had to fight. If he didn't, he wouldn't leave here alive. If he wasn't alive, that would mean that Sideswipe would deadspark as well. That wasn't an option.

Using the wall as support, Sunstreaker shoved his legs between himself and the mech and used whatever strength he could muster to send the attacker onto his spinal support. Sunstreaker dropped back to his peds, one servo rubbing at his neck. A resounding thud hit the quiet in an audio-shattering way when the stranger's frame met with the metallic surface of Cybertron's ground. Plates visibly ratted on his protoform, exposing the wires beneath for a fraction of a nanoclick.

A red sheen had overtaken Sunstreaker's optics. This was no longer about whatever the fight had been for previously. This was now between the mech and Sunstreaker. One on one. No more stalling.

Sunstreaker's growl was powerful enough to shake the ground around him. His armor was alive with exhilaration, the golden plates zipping with a grid of electrified energy. That all too familiar side of himself that arose during his matches in the gladiatorial pits took over his being, consuming him in an inescapable bout of total, complete vehemence.

Ped after ped let him stalk forward, where he stopped but a yard away and leapt onto the prone form of his opponent. A guttural roar escaped him when he balled a fist and sent it straight into the mech's cheekplate. His helm snapped sideways in the blow, lubricant sent sprawling from his lip plates. Again Sunstreaker hit him, and again and again, until his arm was abruptly grabbed by a strong set of digits that crushed the armor of his bracer as if it were a sparkling's protoform. He bellowed, but was cut off when the mech beneath him tossed him aside.

Sunstreaker's frame rolled uncontrollably into the wall of the building next door. His shoulderbolt had been hit the hardest, making it send its own form of intense physical suffering to add in with the rest of Sunstreaker's injuries. It was sheer luck that he ended up on all fours, with his dented shoulderbolt cuff giving him steady support while his systems tried so hard to activate the fullness of his gladiator programming. It was lagging, most likely from the high-grade. Always the high-grade. Why had he been so stupid?

Gritting his oral sheets, he shoved himself to his peds, his servo snapping to the wall so he wouldn't fall over again. A servo was there to ram into his chassis, making him double over his stalled vents. They hiccuped once before shutting off, leaving Sunstreaker's frame instantly boiling in unfathomable heat while he clutched at his midsection. A kneebolt ripped skyward, knocking into Sunstreaker's foreplate so hard that he went unconscious for a sparkbeat.

Thank Primus his vents started working again. That gave him the ability to cycle properly and thus cool down his rapidly overheating systems. Another fist to his side made his frame leap a good foot in the air. He was losing energy, he knew that. He needed a plan and fast, or else he could be left here, leaking on the ground, with Tempest's battered frame in the servos of an abusive mech.

That much was all it took to get him going.

He had to keep himself from laughing out loud when his gladiator programming kicked in after was felt like eons. The mech he fought punched him right in the left cheekplate, leaving him bent over the side, his frame slung limply aside. One by one he sensed his programs coming online. A gruesome smile spread over his energon-encrusted lip plates. It was hidden until he leisurely stayed where he was, wires pounding with the new pressure of life flowing through them.

Sights sharpened; scents broadened; feelings from the most microscopic dust particle between Sunstreaker's toe links to the dents adorning his once pristine frame were felt; energon output from his spark increased tenfold, granting him an insane increase of power from literally nowhere; his processor cleared of any and all remnants of his high-grade consumption.

He saw the mech's fist coming for him. He felt the air bending around it, the space between them shortening when the closed digits were cocked back and sailed at him. A flash of silver touched the lunar cycle, then a spraying fan of azure, and the cringe-worthy screech of metal splitting straight down the middle.

All forms ceased movement. The worlds themselves seemed to freeze. Time stopped. Those positioned in the alleyway simultaneously went frigid as steel.  
A large splatter of blue was now spread over a large area of the wall Sunstreaker was pinned to. Not a single thing had changed about him. Except, perhaps, his arm that was now raised beside him, diagonal to his body, the bracer furnished with a short blade. Its beauty under the light of Cybertron's two moons was ethereal. The length of it was squat and sturdy, perfect for slicing though thick armor. It was twisted at the tip, the edge thin enough to catch a single beam of light and send it piercing into a mech's optics.

Its grey body was now covered in energon, the weapon buried to its hilt in the assailant's arm.

Sunstreaker, in one swift motion that was disturbingly graceful in all its gory glory, dislodged his sword. The mech he'd stabbed let loose a bellow raw enough to shred any set of audios. His screaming carried into the highest of clouds, the pure agony in his voice palpable to the worlds beyond Cybertron's atmosphere. The mech fell back a step or two, grasping on his remaining servo. Or whatever remained of his limb. It was split in half, the digits cut clean down the middle. The wound leaked heavily onto the ashen ground, a steady stream of energon pouring forth into the worlds for all to see.

The mech moaned in sorrowful suffering, his useless appendage held close to his spark. Sunstreaker couldn't care less for the being's discomfort. He lowered his sword, letting the trickling energon run down its side until it dripped from the tip in a pool by his peds.

With a flick of his arm, that energon was splattered on the ground. Now it covered both the wall and the floor. How convenient. Balanced.

Sunstreaker leapt without a sound onto the mech again, scaling his bulk until he perched on his shoulderbolts, kneebolts crammed into the spaces between his shoulderbolt cuffs and his neck. The being, panicked, attempted to dislodge Sunstreaker by grabbing at his leg with his one remaining servo. Sunstreaker brought his sword up and stabbed that as well, rendering his target defenseless as he wailed over his loses.

His arms came up, high over his helm, his sword gleaming maliciously. It ate at the darkness, using it as power while it poised itself over them both. In a clean cut, Sunstreaker plunged the sword into the crease of his shoulderbolt. Where the armor met protoform, the blade effortlessly slipped in and tore at the wires. When Sunstreaker brought it free, the limb was hanging by a single wire.

The mech, rendered mute and crippled now in his injuries, pawed at his unresponsive arm, his spinal support arched and his lip plates opened. His fear and pain was clear in his optics. And when he fell to his kneebolts, Sunstreaker climbing from his shoulderbolts, the mech simply collapsed onto his front, one arm trapped beneath him.

A golden gladiator stepped across his defeated opponent's legs and stood over his midsection. Indifferent faceplates stared down at the back of the mech's helm, feeling nothing but minor pressure from the various wounds given to him by this being. What a pitiful excuse of a gladiator. He brought shame to the arenas.  
Sunstreaker brought his arm upwards again, meaning full well to sever this mech's helm from his neck. There wasn't a moment of hesitation he would have taken.

But right before his last action could be made, another creature took hold of his limb. They prevented him from ending his adversary with a shocking strength that he hadn't believed they possessed. With arms wrapped around his one, he was helpless to bring down his sword on the mech lying, shivering, already dying at his peds. He would be doing the mech mercy.

With a feral snarl, Sunstreaker ripped his faceplates and shoved them into those of the being who held him back. Angled, serious features met wild and untamed fever. His optics, livid in murderous flame, died back to a smoldering ember. Her white gaze brought him back to reality - to the part of himself that others expected him to be.

"Stop," she murmured, her voice unable to mask her violent shaking. "That's enough."

Sunstreaker sagged in hearing her request. He could have ignored her. He could have brought down the blade and ended this right here and now. But he didn't. Why? He didn't know. Around her, he didn't know anything anymore.

He didn't know himself anymore.

Tempest lightly tugged at his arm, willing him to move away from the mech he stood over. He complied, his movements stiff with the oncoming aftermath of his wounds.

"Come on," she urged, hugging his arm to her. Together they fled, out of the alleyway and into the merciless, vile, wretchedness of Kaon. His home.

* * *

"What did he want with you?"

Sunstreaker was pacing beside the femme he knew as Tempest, holding a mesh covering she had provided from a first-aid subspace. They had only stopped once in their escape from the alley, and that was to apply these coverings to his ailments as a meager attempt at stopping their leaking. It was working for now, but Sunstreaker could feel the hot slickness of his energon collecting under the thin mesh.

Tempest sighed, rubbing her upper arms to warm herself against the biting chill of the lunar cycle. "Credits," she said simply, looking up into the stars with an expression Sunstreaker couldn't read.

"For what?"

"I owe him for an upgrade and some medical supplies," she relayed without hesitation. She must have known he was going to ask. Why wouldn't he?

Undeterred, Sunstreaker came a little closer to Tempest, offering whatever warmth he could for her against the breeze. She accepted it without complaint, pressing into his side while they walked.

"Thank you, for helping me," she murmured, her helm bowed. "Anyone else would have left me there."

Sunstreaker didn't respond, but he did sling an arm around her shoulderbolts, squeezing them gently. He felt her shudder, and worse than that, he felt her fear. She was terrified. Of him, or that mech he left between the clubs, he wasn't sure. By now the mech had either leaked out on the ground or had found some help to aid him. The fragger didn't deserved the second option.

"My sister will be worried about me," she mumbled shakily.

Tempest's digits came up to intertwine with his on her shoulderbolt, her trembling servo relying on his for strength. "Does she know about that mech?" Sunstreaker wondered.

"Yes. She knows about everything...we don't keep secrets."

They fell into silent for the most part of their trip, seeing as neither wished to speak in their situation. It was understandable.

But there was one thing nagging at Sunstreaker's processor, and he abruptly stopped walking when it came to the top of his thoughts. Tempest halted as well, turning her faceplates up at him in the weary curiosity she could muster in her bedraggled state.

"Tempest, was that mech-?"

"What did you call me?" she interrupted, her optic ridges falling.

Sunstreaker stopped, considering her confused expression. "Tempest," he repeated.

Her split lip plate, caked with drying energon, lifted into a smile. The sudden change in her appearance struck Sunstreaker into silence, and he examined her thoughtfully. She chuckled, though weakly, and let go of his digits to step away from him.

"That's not my designation," she informed lightly. "It's my stage name. You know, for 'work'."

Sunstreaker's optic ridges raised. While he thought of how to respond, he followed Tempest, or who he thought she was, as she started ahead without him. Their path had been for her home, but Sunstreaker refused to leave her alone until she'd gotten there. So far, their trip had been basically making sure one another didn't keel over in the streets rather than looking out for more threats.

"Then what is?" he questioned her, his optics boring into the back of her helm.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

At this she spun around, her servos behind her spinal support and a mischievous grin adorning her features. It was her break in exhaustion that made his injuries seem all the more distant. It had been her after all that he'd taken them for. He guessed as long as she was stable, he could deal with his wounds just fine. But that attitude of hers was going to frag him off one of these orns.

If he ever saw her again, that was.

That realization put a strange pang of sadness in his core. What would happen after this lunar cycle? The possibility that he would ever see her faceplates around that club again after what had happened was slim to none. She would want to hide away, and he didn't blame her. He would have done the same. But would they ever meet again, in the streets, or in the clubs lining the endless strip in Kaon's third district? Would he ever again meet optics with those intense, white bulbs of hers, and fight a battle he knew he couldn't win? Or would he ever hear her teasing, preventing him from getting any byte of information from her?

The two Cybertronians reached a cluster of ramshackle, old domiciles down in Kaon's fifth district. Tempest led Sunstreaker back into the rear of the plot, where a modest building, seeming ready to buckle at any time, was tucked into the back corner. It was a pretty lukewarm structure, with two front windows and a single door positioned between them. Tiny knick-knacks were set in the front of it to add some decorative appeal, however, the whole of it was plain. Sunstreaker could see himself adding better color to the dwelling, but as he thought about it, he didn't want to add anything. This was her domicile, so it fit her.

"What you saw back there..." Tempest's voice picked up from before Sunstreaker and he looked at her, finding her spinal support to him with her shoulderbolts slumped and her helm bowed. "Forget about it. All of it. Delete the file about me, about what you saw...everything."

Sunstreaker's lip plates pressed into a thin line. He was expecting this.

"I don't delete my memory files. Ever," he stated firmly, walking up directly behind her until his chassis brushed her spinal support.

The femme wound her arms on her midsection, the stress in her neck visible to Sunstreaker. He could sense the distress in her. The way she stood, the way she talked - it all spoke volumes of her inner strife. He had an urge to bring his arms around her and comfort her, for he too had suffered as she did now. He'd seen his dolanno being shot through the spark. He'd held his nannia as she lay dying in his arms. Primus only knew of what she had been through.

Tempest twisted around to face Sunstreaker again, her optics pleading. "Sunstreaker-"

She couldn't finish before the mech started forward, throwing her into her door when she'd jumped back. Her startled optics were wide as Sunstreaker's arms planted above her helm, his crest hovering on the brink of touching hers. His frame bowed to suit her shape, encasing her in a golden cocoon of mech. The cycles leaving their vents mingled in the nonexistent space between them. Her lip plates parted, words surely on the tip of her glossa, but he silenced her with a single shake of his helm.

"I won't delete the file. I never have, and I never will," his voice barely came over a whisper. Tempest's own gaze flicker for the astrosecond in retaliation, but she held back, merely bringing up her servos to lay tenderly on his chassis. He pushed down the shiver trying to wrack his frame at her tingling touch. A blossom of heat scorched his plates from where she touched to every corner of his protoform.

With a practiced gentleness, he brought out the small magnet in his subspace and placed it on the dent marring Tempest's cheekplate. He worked it around the edge, coaxing the metal back into its original shape. She didn't speak against him as he worked. Before a breem had passed, her cheekplate was as smooth and even as it had been before. Without a word, Sunstreaker placed his tool back into subspace. No, he wouldn't get rid of this. This moment, this lunar cycle, and her. He would remember it all.

Tempest's optics looked over the details of his faceplates carefully, her gaze sending a burning, scalding hot spear through Sunstreaker's very core.

"Sunstreaker, I don't want to forget about you," she murmured, lifting her chin. "I don't want to run anymore, I've been doing it all my life. But you..." she paused, her throat expanding as she swallowed her fear, "I feel safe around you."

"Safe isn't my first choice of words," he vented, his lip plates nearing hers. She smiled, though he'd been completely serious.

"I'm not scared of you."

"Then you are an idiot."

Tempest's servos slid up and over Sunstreaker's shoulderbolts, settling on the sides of his neck. Her thumb links stroked the line of his mandible, her white optics dancing under the moons' glaze. "Maybe," she admitted.

And she kissed him.

It wasn't like anything Sunstreaker had experienced before. It was a passionate expression from the femme, with every ounce of her fiery nature showing in the way she melded with him. They moved as one, connected as one. He could taste the excitement in her, the way she feverishly mimicked his every move. His arms fell from the door to encircle her spinal support, pressing her to him to deepen their embrace.

She had left him dizzy and without air in his vents. The way her digits dug into his plating and he found his clasped onto her spinal support without the will to let go...it was unexplainable. There was no longer Kaon surrounding them. The fifth district of Cybertron's deadliest city-state was no more. Through the flaring mist of her kiss, he felt the unrestrained, bucking wildness of her spark. It was an untameable force, beyond his comprehending or ability. But it was the challenge he preferred. And he liked this challenge.

Tempest finally broke their kiss after an incompressible amount of time, leaving them ventless and spinning. Sunstreaker was lost for what to say, finding whatever it was he needed to tell this femme still held tight in his arms was already told. It was a strange feeling, this closeness. But still, it felt right.  
That same smile took its rightful place on her features, bright in boundless energy, but hinting poisonous mischief. Sunstreaker couldn't tell what this femme would do next, or when, but he almost enjoyed that unpredictability. It was wonderful.

Tempest pulled out of the ring of his arms, her servos holding his for a nanoclick before she opened her door and slipped inside. But she still leaned out, her oral sheets flashing in the biggest grin she'd sent his way yet.

"Sunny," she said simply, sadly. "My designation...it's Galefire." And she shut him out.

Sunstreaker smiled at the door like the dumbest being in Kaon. Maybe he was. The logic didn't add up. But he didn't care. And that made him smile even more.

* * *

"Sunstreaker!"

The golden mech jolted, leaping a good foot and a half off the floor. His sights turned to his brother, the ever present Sideswipe, who was squatted beside him with a microscorcher in one servo and some temp plating in the other. His blue optics were mixed with both concern and humor, the joking edge to them knocking Sunstreaker's surprise into irritation again.

"I've been trying to talk to you for a whole breem," the crimson, former gladiator stated. "Where the frag did you go?"

"Nowhere," Sunstreaker snapped, turning back to his work repairing the depositor.

"Sounds fun," Sideswipe commented, nudging his brother's shoulderbolt.

They shouldn't be here. They should have been out in the field with Optimus Prime in Russia or Stratis' team in New York. But instead, they were stuck on base in Washington D.C, repairing a machine _they_ broke because of a trinket Sunstreaker had been given by their nannia when they were younger. It had meant the worlds to Sunstreaker, and when Sideswipe had broke it, he'd just snapped. A part of him still had yet to forgive his twin.

Wheeljack walked over to them, the scanner of his compad working to look into the barrel of the depositor. Pulling it back, he glanced down at the two fixing the exterior. "Something on yer processor botherin' ya, Sunny?" he asked cheerfully, making the golden warrior hunch into himself. He didn't answer, not even when Greenlight tread over to join their group, a rag between her servos as she cleaned the grime off of them.

"He's not going to open up, he's being a stubborn slagger right now," Sideswipe offered for his brother. Sunstreaker wanted to lash out at them, to deny his twin's words and reprimand his brother, but he didn't. The truth was that he hadn't the energy to talk about his visions. They were too unsettling. Every 'Bot on base had their own personal stories to tell, but his would remain in the dark until he rusted over in his grave.

Wheeljack simply shrugged in his Wheeljack-way, and smiled at Greenlight before pecking a kiss on her cheekplate and leading her away to their temporary workstation at the back of the room, where they would be creating replacement parts for the depositor. Sunstreaker kept his optics averted, focusing on his welder and the neatness of his seams.

Sideswipe's body could be felt to come in closer, their bond becoming larger the closer they got. "Was it about Tempest again?" he murmured, all past humor gone. Sunstreaker went rigid, which gave his twin all the information he needed. With a sigh he settled back at his spot, slaving away at his work without questioning his already agitated sibling further.

"Galefire," Sunstreaker corrected too low for his brother to hear. "Her name was Galefire."

* * *

**I swear this is a one-shot.**

**I keep telling myself it is DX**

**But it was just so dang fun to write!**

**I enjoyed a little Sunstreaker-OC action, didn't you guys?**

**It's not often I write with them, and it was a lot of fun to do!**

**Btw, Galefire isn't a newer OC.**

**Nope.**

**If you've read OTSH, she's actually come up a few times :)**

**Thank you all, I truly mean it. Without you guys egging me on, I probably wouldn't, and couldn't, write all that I have up to this point. I hope to keep going, making stories for you guys, for a long time coming :D**

**Love and hugs for everyone ^_^**

**~Scarlet Nightmare**


End file.
